


stars wheeling through the sky

by asterspire



Category: Odin Sphere
Genre: F/M, Sisterly Relationships, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7374049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterspire/pseuds/asterspire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An arranged marriage and a formal ball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimers apply. Also, Odin Sphere is beautiful and underappreciated and I'd love to talk about it with people.

Her touch is featherlight on the ornate bronze knob of Griselda’s private quarters, but the brilliant Valkyrie commander can sense her presence anyway. 

“Come in, Gwendolyn,” her voice floats through the door, authoritative and poised even through the layer of thick mahogany. Amused but not surprised by her sister’s razor-sharp intuition, Gwendolyn allows her fingertips to trail along the decorative engraved roses for a single hesitant moment before she twists open the door knob. It wasn’t that she was worried her sister would not be willing to offer her counsel- even between the extra military missions and political gatherings that Griselda was required to attend, she had always managed to make time for her younger sister. It was simply the more delicate subject of this particular matter that had made Gwendolyn apprehensive. The door gives a faint click as Gwendolyn bears her weight upon it, and she feels all traces of tentativeness slide from her muscles like dewdrops on a waxy leaf as she’s struck with the familiar lavender scent of Griselda’s room.

Griselda’s back is turned, one hand calmly parting her hair as the other steadily runs a brush through it.

She was already preparing to go to sleep. Gwendolyn feels a twist of guilt for finally choosing to visit so late, and internally resolves not to take very long.

“Sister,” she begins, “forgive me for intruding, but I just wanted to-”

“I know why you are here.” Punctuated by the click of the brush being set down on the vanity, Griselda’s smooth interruption cuts through her meek introduction like a knife to water. Gwendolyn had always thought that perhaps when she was older her presence would reflect her sister's: effortlessly regal and imposing, with equal parts confidence and authoritative flare. Yet here she was, of her solid nineteen years: still substituting aggressiveness for poise, still failing to earn the loyal admiration of the Valkyries, still allowing the occasional show of mercy to betray her cold reputation. A pale imitation of her sister, as always.

Griselda may be a terror and a prodigy on the battlefield, but she still looks almost gentle with her hair down- platinum ends just slightly unruly in the pallid moonlight- and the familiar sight soothes Gwendolyn. The Valkyrie commander turns, beckoning that her little sister comes closer, and she obliges with as much grace as she can manage.

Gwendolyn takes a seat on the well-kept silk comforter, running her fingers down the looping patterns of metallic embroidery that mimic the perpetual starlight streaks crowning the Nebulapolis sky. Finding monotony in the hand-stitched indents is something of a comfort when her sister's intent gaze seems to pierce through her very thoughts.

“So,” Griselda begins, “you are hesitant about being given away for marriage.”

Gwendolyn bites her lip. She has thought this through, and she knows Griselda won’t ridicule her concerns. “Not hesitant, sister. I am merely anxious. ‘Tis...the kind of anxiety that clings to one’s bones when she has battled to the point of exhaustion but has scarcely whittled at the immortal number of foes. It is the knowledge that one’s fate is sealed, doomed, and everything they have done in preparation to prevent this moment has been for naught.”

She knows that she is being dramatic, that many a worse fate could have befallen her, but she can’t help feeling a certain emptiness that this chapter of her life was drawing to a close.

Griselda takes a seat on the bed beside her, dark eyes looking almost amused. “Do you feel as if you have lost, dear sister? Do you not feel that it was noble to struggle against your destiny for the sweet time that you could make it yours and yours alone?”

“I…” Gwendolyn knows it’s all true, and yet one thought keeps clawing it’s way to the front of her mind, wicked and demanding. “There is hardly any honor to be had in laying down my weapon and supporting my country from within a foreign prince's castle.”

“Gwendolyn,” Griselda exhales, halfway between a sigh and a croon- “my dear, dear sister. You do not stop being a Valkyrie once you have put up your armor and tucked in the wings. You stop being a Valkyrie once you have succumbed to domesticity in both mind and soul, when you’re no longer willing to spill your blood and bones for the banner of Ragnanival, when you start waking up without the desire to chase the horizon and never turn back. Submit only as much as you need to, sister, and I promise you won’t lose yourself. You are too strong for that.”

Gwendolyn feels emotion prickle at the corners of her eyes, and she averts her gaze to the various articles of furniture in the room- limited and solely practical, a layout that perfectly reflects her sensible sister. “Oh, Griselda,” she murmurs. “You are too good to me. I believe leaving you will be the most painful part of all this, even more so than bidding farewell to Father.”

Griselda’s expression softens, looking distant and mournful in the sparse blue light trickling in from the terrace. “It is your final duty as a proud Valkyrie of Ragnanival. You have served most honorably, sister, and I’m sure he is sorry to see you go.”

Gwendolyn knows she is being insolent by asking, but she can’t help the question. “As a soldier, or as a daughter?”

Griselda says nothing. Instead, she beckons Gwendolyn to come closer while fidgeting for something on her glass bedside table. “Gwendolyn,” she begins, unfurling the aged parchment to reveal a watercolor map of Erion- “you know the politics behind this decision as well as I do.”

Gwendolyn peers over her sister, platinum strands brushing Griselda’s shoulder, and notes with amusement the many holes in the parchment- indicators of where Griselda had stuck pins to mark grand combat strategies that they’d pored over together for hours. 

Strategies that Gwendolyn would now never be able to take part in again. The nostalgia leaves her in a cold rush as Gwendolyn’s eyes linger on the hulking nation of Titania, spacious and foreboding even on a simple scale representation. 

“It’s about the balance of power.” As is her habit when reciting from memory, her voice had dropped to something more level- pleasantly neutral at first impression, but decidedly morose to those who knew her well. She blinks leisurely to add to the bored facade, long eyelashes sweeping her face. 

“Prince Cornelius of Titania is courting our half-sister, Velvet. And Valentine already proves to be a formidable rival with their prince’s diplomatic relations with the neighboring Fairy Kingdom. In one fell swoop, Valentine can gain control of half of the nation of Erion if they so choose.”

“Added to their natural advantage in magical technology,” Griselda adds primly.

“-and it gives Father ample reason to worry. But with this….arrangement, at least Father will be able to keep Titania neutral in any future conflict. It is as much a show of good faith as it is a defensive measure. It is,” she bites her lip, “a wise choice.” 

Gwendolyn knows her duty, can see the glint of Griselda’s crown resting on the vanity even from here, but just because Gwendolyn will obey her Father unflinchingly does not forbid some remorse in her heart as she does so.

Griselda simply pulls her close. “I will miss you dearly,” is all the sentiment she offers before she lays off to the side and puts the scroll away, tugging the covers up over herself and closing her eyes. A silent invitation for Gwendolyn to stay in her room for the night, if she so wished.

Gwendolyn carefully pulls the pins from her hair and nestles under the covers, savoring both the slide of clean linen and the enduring floral scent that Griselda’s Pooka attendant Myrtle works so tenaciously to maintain, and perhaps it’s these small details that remind her, that she is here surrounded by night and comfort and her sister’s love and she is the heir to a city so magnificent it’s very name can stand among the stars, and right now her only duty is to count down the seconds until she has to say goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing he misses most about Ringford is the nights.

The fairies had been kind to him in that they’d given him a room in a high tower well away from the bustle of the rest of the castle, which was askew with messy vine tendrils and always exuded a subtle earthy scent of dew and pomegranate. 

The homely state of his room, however, had not been the impressive part. It was when he’d leaned far enough out the weathered-stone windowsill and had been able to witness the full expanse of the fields and forests alike that he understood why Queen Elfaria took such pride in her lands.

Though they were impressive in the daytime, there was nothing quite like walking through the fields at night- a constant wading through the knee deep grasses dotted with delicate pastel bulbs and vibrant flora as enticing as they were deadly. There hadn’t been many fairies out at this hour; in lieu of the festive hunting and gathering activities of the day instead there simply remained tired soldiers holding last-minute drills, and the cool tranquil had even subdued the beasts of the forests. However, there’d never been quite so many fireflies on even the most peaceful of Titanian nights, and they were newfound, silent companions as he would settle along the roots of a gnarled ash tree to stop. To think. 

Cornelius had always enjoyed retreating to the Forest of Elrit for solitude- or, as he had increasingly suspected over the years, to see his lover- but it was under another country’s sky, dressed in what might be considered commoner garb in Titania, that Oswald had finally begun to see the appeal.

-

The display in front of him is almost the opposite of those subdued evenings, with circular magelights replacing the naturally luminescent flowers of the fae and pristine alabaster in place of timeless stone. Even the still peace of nighttime in Ringford- which had been accentuated, rather than disrupted by the chirping of cicadas and the low murmurs of fairies and pan flutes alike- could be considered silent compared to the cacophony of errant sound settled over the venue.

King Odin had gone to the trouble to clear one of his unoccupied castles among the Ragnanival border to host the event, but his intention had been quite clear. More socialization among the kingdoms equated to more information which equated to more political leverage. He was being calculating and forward-thinking, as always.

A simpler interpretation could pinpoint the ball as a way to foster the arranged marriage he’d set up for his daughter, but even those outside the Ragnanival court knew Odin would never to go such lengths for sentiment.

The arranged marriage. Oswald knows he’ll have to stop mentally referring to it like that eventually, but even as a royal’s son it’s always been difficult for him to stomach the idea of wedlock without love and promises without meaning. He can’t say it’s unexpected for him to be married off so soon, but above all else, he feels apologetic to the princess.

They’d met once as children, when the queen of Ragnanival was still alive and King Odin didn’t keep quite the iron grip on the political machinery of his country. Oswald had still been pathetically diffident, softspoken for a child and antisocial for a noble, but he recalls having worked up the grace to introduce himself and having been greeted by a sweeping curtsy and a look of mild curiosity. Gwendolyn had introduced herself proudly, stating both her name and title with practiced fervor as she took both him and Cornelius by the hand and led them on a self-proclaimed tour around the castle.

Her sister had been out for combat training that day, Oswald thinks, hence the hospitality of the younger. Cornelius had teased him about it later, but all that he’d really remembered from that day was a flash of platinum hair and the spirit of her smile.

He wonders if he’ll see her this evening. He also wonders if she’ll hate him.

Oswald tears himself away from his thoughts as he ascends the polished front steps and wades among the crowd of people, murmuring brisk apologies when he brushes the satin of a ladies’ gown or the crisp cut of a lord’s jacket. He doesn’t exactly fit in amongst the glitter and poise of the dancing floor, and he bypasses that clearing rather quickly. Edgar used to tell him that he would be much more popular if he would fix the expression on his face- only to laugh as Oswald’s trademark scowl only deepened at the comment. 

Oswald’s usual strategy at social events is to find a less occupied location and try to look somewhat approachable, flagging down key figures and exchanging pleasantries until he feels his social quota is fulfilled and he may retreat to the balcony to brood. It’s at least a development from his earlier years, hard to believe as that may be. 

He picks his way along the mosaic- patterned tiles and the sea of pastel gowns, climbing the stairs once more and finding a cool pillar on the second floor to lean against. Oswald doesn’t let his guard down, however, until he’s twisted his expression into something slightly resembling amiability, and shakes the tension from his folded arms. 

He’s out of his element, really. He may have come a long way from avoiding the other people completely, or even looking blatantly discontent at social gatherings, but no amount of etiquette training could shake his naturally rigid demeanor. Edgar had reassured him that the burden of being prince did that to one’s psyche, but anyone could see how easily Cornelius had taken to the spotlight- thrived in it, even. 

Oswald knows his cousin takes his responsibilities as Titanian royalty just as seriously, even if he goes about it in a different fashion. As they entered their teenage years, Oswald had studied books of politics and war while Cornelius had participated in border patrols and maintained good foreign relations. As for their hobbies, Oswald saw swordplay as a way to release aggression while Cornelius saw it as a necessity to protect his country. 

No matter what the factors had been, however, the cousins really could not have turned out any more different: Oswald, assertive and severe, and Cornelius, idealistic and naive. However, the whispers of the court had not eluded Oswald, and he knows that at least half of the nobility believe that Cornelius has the finer temperament to be king. He almost would’ve thought it humorous the first time he heard it if he hadn’t thought it to be true. 

Oswald can hear the whispers around him even now among the people that have recognized him. They are unsettled with the silences between his words and the flint in his eyes. Let them be, he thinks, sending them pointed, practiced smiles.

-

It’s a mild surprise when the first person of the evening to greet him is not his zealous cousin but instead Melvin of Ringford. 

“Good evening, Prince Oswald,” Melvin begins, the following flawless bow almost as smooth as his introduction. 

Oswald returns the gesture, keeping his gaze properly lowered until he makes eye contact with the familiar amused gaze of the fairy lord. The first time they’d met, Oswald had instinctively remembered Edmund’s hissed warning to him before he’d left for his apprenticeship, about not becoming too trusting of Melvin as every politician across the realms knew him to be a deceptive snake. Time had passed, however, and Oswald had found his concerns to be mostly unwarranted.

Melvin hadn’t expected much of him politically; he’d learned quickly enough after the first few flat refusals that he would not wring any of Titania’s secrets nor gossip out of the stoic prince. So the fairy noble had waved his hand and simply tried a different approach. He begun to treat Oswald more like any other one of his men, had drilled him and taught him and criticized him.

Oswald supposed Cornelius might’ve been indignant at being dismissed like that, but to him the brief months has been a respite. Melvin, who would go from greeting him with sweeping introductions and carefully entertaining his military suggestions one moment to blatantly insulting his sparring form and invading his privacy the next, had been the closest outside his family to actually treat him as human.

“My boy,” Melvin chuckles, spreading his arms in his signature pacifist gesture as his eyes surveyed the crown prince. “You loved Ringford so much that you felt inclined to take a piece of it with you, hm?”

If Oswald was a man of less dignity, he would have flushed. Thankfully, he was not, and did not.

He looks down at his own clothing, with patterned midnight layers and olive trim in the style of the fairies. The most incriminating part of his impromptu outfit is the row of clover-stamped gold buttons that run along his shoulders- a symbol of the Ringford military. 

Oswald sighs. “I did not,” he begins with composure, “have time to return to Titania before attending the ball, for I had not anticipated to stay in Ringford as long as I had. Therefore I had to resort to wearing the clothes from your military banquet in order to dress in something even remotely presentable. I am convinced that members of the Titanian court who see me in such attire will not care.”

“Will they truly not take offense, or is simply that you cannot be bothered to care even if they do?” Oswald can hear the smile in his voice, and can see the entertained glint in his sanguine eyes through peripheral vision alone. Duplicitous as Melvin is known to be, Oswald senses the fairy is probably jealous of a crown prince’s political sway, and is secretly belittling him for not properly maintaining his reputation among the nobility. 

However, he also knows that Melvin takes pleasure in ruffling the feathers of the higher ups, and it is in the confidence of a fellow “rule-breaker” that Oswald simply replies with a gruff, “Then it is a symbol of successful diplomacy between Titania and Ringford, and they should take it as such.”

Melvin chuckles and directs the conversation into gossip about the fairy court and general criticisms of the ball attendees before his expression takes on a pointed stare.

“And now, Prince Oswald, would be the time where you tell me why you forced yourself to attend this ball, despite lacking both rest and the state of mind to have packed extra clothing.”

Oswald stares at him coolly, keeping his expressionless carefully neutral. “King Edgar made me.”

Melvin raises an eyebrow. “We both know he is not the type to force your hand during strenuous circumstances.”

Oswald weighs his options, and the character of the man before him. Regardless of his motives, Melvin had been a sort of mentor figure in the fairy country that no one had thought to be or dared to be in even his home Titanian court. King Odin would probably enjoy the publicity anyway.

“My father would like me to introduce myself to my fiance.”

Melvin smirks. “So the rumors were true. Odin’s youngest daughter, yes?”

“The speed at which your information network operates is unsettling.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. And I am feeling generous today, so I will go ahead and share with you that I saw a certain Valkyrie princess looking positively dismal on the third floor balcony. How much of that had to with the fact that she was being quite visibly annoyed by the Inferno King is up to your discretion.”

Oswald expresses his curt thanks as Melvin winks and turns to mingle amongst the more amiable guests, and the Titanian prince finds his feet moving toward the stairwell before he’s even decided whether or not to act on the information.

-

He decides not to flag down his cousin when he sees Cornelius dancing dreamily with the Valentinian princess in a swirl of color and flare. Cornelius’ back is turned to him, and this added to the fact that the third floor was comparatively sparse of dancing pairs must’ve created the illusion of privacy because the prince was being bold. He leans in close to whisper something in Velvet’s ear that elicits a gentle laugh from the lady. Then, fingertips resting gently on her arm, he pulls her into a grand spin that sends her straight back into his arms as they simply stand, enjoying the others’ presence.

It interests Oswald, just a bit. While one part of him could cringe at his cousin's sappy antics, he also knows that Cornelius had been lucky- he’d found someone to genuinely love and who would reciprocate the feeling in turn. Oswald wonders if he is fated to experience the same.

He turns away quietly to leave the couple to themselves.

-

It’s on the terrace on the north side of the castle, in the direction facing Ragnanival, that he finds the Valkyrie princess at last. Or rather, hears her voice. 

“And I will have to kindly refuse your offer, King Onyx, as I do not see what I could possibly contribute to your court.” The admonishment sounds clear and regal even from Oswald’s discreet positioning near the wall, and it seemed as if it had left no room for argument.

Which is why Oswald is as surprised as he is to hear a deep laugh, booming and supercilious, halting itself on a catch of breath as Onyx speaks again.

“You are so formal, princess.” Oswald can hear the sardonicism dripping off every word. “It’s not a matter of whether you’d have anything useful to contribute. Perhaps I simply enjoy your presence.”

Gwendolyn makes a disgusted noise. “I’d prefer if you didn’t talk as if we are old friends, Inferno King.”

Onyx makes an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t enjoy my company? I was just thinking that perhaps instead of establishing relations in Titania, King Odin would be more interested in an alliance with the Vulcans...”

 

Oswald feels a flare of annoyance in the pit of his stomach, as much out of pride from Onyx insulting his country as distaste in his unwelcome advances on the princess. 

Oswald steps out from the shadows of the wall he had been leaning against and moves into the light of the open balcony, immediately sensing Onyx’s heated glare fixate upon him but not feeling threatened in the slightest.

“That’s quite enough,” the prince says, the three words laced with steel. “I think the lady has made her intention quite clear.”

Onyx scoffs at him, having apparently already sized him up and deciding him not to be a threat. “Mind your own business, fairy. The affairs of the upper courts have nothing to do with you.”

The words do not cut as much as they simply annoy him. For someone with such a fearsome reputation to be so ignorant… He knows that had Cornelius been subjected to such rudeness the latter may have simply stated his title and stood his ground, but Oswald does not wish to make Titania an enemy of the Inferno King. He holds his tongue.

“My station matters not. What should be more important to you, is that there are plenty of ladies tonight who would be vying to have an audience with Your Highness, and you are doing a terrible job of entertaining them.”

Onyx visibly bristles, cool obsidian of his eyes flashing dangerously. “You dare show such insolence? Who are you to criticize a king?”

Oswald simply holds his gaze.

Eventually Onyx scowls and turns away, glancing at both the gradually increasing crowd on the ballroom floor and the callous expression of the lady on his right. He seems to eventually realize it would be wiser to concede defeat than to risk further damage to his pride. “Much as it pains me to do so, Gwendolyn, I must admit that the whelp has a point. I hope that we shall be able to talk again, sooner rather than later.” 

He extends a hand to her, presumably to take her own and press to his lips, but Gwendolyn stands impassive, visibly scorning his advances. Oswald could have laughed.

Onyx sighs once more and brushes by Oswald in his departure, as the jeweled speckles of red on his formal attire are given the illusion of catching alight by the rays of the chandelier.

Gwendolyn turns to him then, ducking her head slightly. It’s the first time he gets a close look at her, but beyond the flourishes of ribboned frills and alternating accents of navy and cream he knows that she is still the same spirited girl he had met all those years before. Gwendolyn speaks first.

“I thank you for that, knight. I did not think my father would appreciate dealing with him as brusquely as I had intended.”

So, her reasoning had been the same. Oswald shakes his head, moving forward to join her on the balcony. “‘Tis nothing.”

Gwendolyn turns her head to the side to scrutinize him before focusing on some distant object. “This may be an intrusion on my part, knight, but King Onyx called you a fairy. And although you are indeed wearing the attire of Ringford, you appear to be human.”

Oswald lowers his head, carefully choosing his words. “I am of Titania, but have recently returned from an apprenticeship in Ringford in which I honed my combat skills. I don their clothes as I did not think to bring enough of my own beforehand, and I had not time to return to Titania to acquire some. I hope those of Ringford will simply take it as a symbol of good faith.”

Gwendolyn smiles faintly at that, before turning towards the rail once more. Oswald does not expect her to reply, and is mildly surprised when she does.

“I am no stranger to the concept. The final trial to becoming a Valkyrie, after all, is to spend a week in solitude on Winterhorn Ridge.” She’s still looking into the distance, irises chasing the light of the Ragnanival sky. “‘Tis a most brutal endeavor, with a persistent cold and no shortage of fiends, but,” she closes her eyes, and when they open again she is staring straight at him, “-I felt there could’ve been no more fitting way to test our mettle. I was unaware that Titania had these traditions as well. Might I ask what station of the military you were training for?”

Such a short-lived ruse; Melvin would’ve been disappointed in him. Oswald bows with little flourish as he dares himself to hope she won’t immediately desert him. “I ask your forgiveness in any misunderstanding, but my name is Oswald, scion of Titania.”

Gwendolyn visibly flushes in her embarrassment. “Forgive me for not realizing so earlier, milord.”

Almost reflexively, he states, “‘Tis of little consequence.”

He begins to regret having introduced himself as Gwendolyn’s demeanor not-so-subtly shifts. Like a switch flipped, she becomes distant again, vigor subdued and posture perfectly straight in the lace confines of her dress. 

“Then your purpose of approaching me tonight was to garner favor before our engagement?” Her voice trails off airily, caution masked by indifference.

“...No. During my time in Ringford, I contemplated whether or not to introduce myself to you tonight. I thought you should hate me, so I decided I would simply like to see you, and would not pursue a conversation if you did not wish one.” He pauses, as much to check if Gwendolyn was still paying him heed as to gather his own thoughts. His first concern is answered when he realizes he can almost feel the sharp scrutiny of her gaze. 

“However..when I saw that you were being bothered by the Inferno King, I could not help but intervene. That being said, if you do not wish to see me then I shall take my leave.”

He allows the statement to settle in the air for a moment, and at no apparent response from Gwendolyn, he turns to depart.

“Wait.” 

Oswald turns. Gwendolyn’s look is thoughtful, moonbeams glinting off the wing clips in her hair, and she is silent another moment before addressing him. “...I had heard that the crown prince of Titania was an unsociable, dismal person.” Oswald allows himself a chuckle at that, but Gwendolyn gains momentum as she continues speaking.

“Yet you have shown me kindness in your actions and reserve in your words. If you are so offering, I would like to judge your character for myself. It would be a relief for us both if we were not wed to complete strangers.”

He simply nods, his surprise numbed by the lightness in his chest, and he moves to join her once again in watching the night. 

It’s tentative at first, but eventually they speak of little things- of Oswald’s friendly rivalry with his cousin, of Gwendolyn’s responsibilities among the Valkyries. They don’t dance, either; in the one instance Gwendolyn moves from the balcony to greet Princess Velvet she is back soon enough. 

It may not be the flashy courtship that Cornelius had always dared him to initiate, but it’s within the rapidly chilling air and surrounded by night, with Gwendolyn conversing with him and at ease and considerably less distant than before that he realizes he would only grow to admire her more, and when he reaches for her hand at their parting she doesn’t decline.


End file.
